The Mate He Bought

Scraps and Shadows

Athena's POV

I think the rats have names now.

The fat one that scurries near my feet? Gerald. The smaller one that chews the same spot on the wood every night like it’s his life’s mission? Maybe Beth. I whisper to them sometimes when it gets too quiet down here, like I’m not the only pathetic soul crawling in the dark.

I didn’t die last night. Should’ve. Might still. But somehow, I’m still here.

When Raphael left, he didn’t touch me. Just dangled that key like it was candy and said what he wanted. I didn’t answer. Didn’t cry either. He waited a full minute, staring. Then he left. Key still in hand. Like he wanted me to beg.

I won’t.

This morning—maybe morning, I don’t know anymore—they dragged me upstairs. Threw a mop in my hand. Said nothing. Just pointed at the hallway floors.

Back to scrubbing.

Back to pretending.

Back to the ache in my back, in my bones, in my belly.

Everything hurts more now. I can feel the baby. Just barely. A tiny flutter sometimes. Like it’s trying to remind me it exists. Or maybe it’s scared too.

I keep one hand close to my stomach whenever I can. I think it helps. I don’t know.

Food? Barely. A heel of stale bread last night. Maybe two spoonfuls of cold rice the day before. Water when someone remembers. I count the cracks in the wall so I don’t count the days.

Still. I gather.

Scraps from plates they forget to wash. Bits of cloth from torn rags. An old shoe with no sole. Anything. Everything. It’s not an escape plan yet. It’s just… something.

And him. The guard. That boy.

He’s new. Young. Not cruel like the others. He watches me when he thinks I don’t notice. Fidgets with the end of his belt. Clears his throat too much.

I cornered him by the stables. Said I needed rags for the floor.

He looked down at me—literally—and said, "I’m not supposed to talk to you."

I blinked at him. Let my knees wobble a little. Let the bruise on my cheek show when I tilted my head.

"Please. Just… a minute."

He caved. Of course he did. Boys like him always do.

"You shouldn’t be here," he muttered. "They talk about you."

"Do they?" I asked, and leaned just enough to show him how thin my dress had become. Cheap trick. But I’m surviving, not auditioning for sainthood.

He scratched the back of his neck. "They say you’re a traitor. That you’re cursed. That Alpha wants to get rid of you."

I already knew all that.

"Do you believe it?"

He didn’t answer.

So I pressed. Soft. Careful. Like a knife to the belly.

"Do you know when the pack meeting is?"

He hesitated.

"Tomorrow night. Big deal. New alliances. A few outside wolves coming in. Security’s tighter. No one’s allowed out."

Tomorrow.

I smiled. Not because I felt joy. I’d forgotten what that was.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He looked at me like I’d handed him a crown.

Later, I snuck an old cloth into my pocket. Some moldy fruit too. I buried it behind the stables under a loose stone. Emergency stash. One of many now.

Every step feels like walking through tar. My ankles swell. My back screams. I taste blood sometimes when I swallow. But I don’t stop.

I can’t.

That night, I tried to sit by the fire in the servant’s quarters. Just for a few minutes. Just for warmth.

But Isabella came.

Of course she did.

She took one look at me and smiled.

"Feeling cozy, are we?"

I stood. Quick. Stiff. Heart in my throat.

"I was just—"

"Saving your strength for your next escape attempt?"

I froze. She walked slow. Like a snake in a silk dress.

"Don’t worry," she said sweetly. "Alpha will deal with you properly this time."

Then she turned and left.

Two minutes later, the guards grabbed me.

Dragged me to the storeroom. One I’d cleaned a hundred times. Always smelled like old carrots and mildew.

"He said no food. No water. Until you remember your place."

The door slammed.

Darkness again.

I sat down, hard. My knees gave out.

I laughed.

Just once. Bitter and sharp.

Because of course.

Because I dared to survive. To ask. To steal a scrap of hope.

No food. No water.

Just me.

Me and this baby that keeps reminding me it’s still in there.

I curled up in the corner. Pulled the rag from my pocket. Used it like a blanket. Pathetic.

My lips cracked. My eyes burned.

But I won’t cry.

I won’t beg.

He wants to break me.

But I’m already broken.

Now I’m just sharp.

Tomorrow, they gather.

Tomorrow, the wolves come.

Tomorrow, I try again.

Because if I don’t...

Then what the hell did I live this long for?

---

I didn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Isabella’s smirk or Raphael’s key swinging like a noose. My head throbbed from thirst. My tongue felt thick and dry, like cotton soaked in ash. But I stayed awake, counting each drip of water from a leak somewhere above. One every ten seconds. Maybe more. Time plays tricks when you’re trapped.

At some point, the door creaked.

I didn’t move. Didn't breathe.

It wasn’t a guard. Guards stomp and grunt and bark orders like dogs trying to sound meaner than they are.

This was quieter.

Cautious.

A shadow slipped through the door. A boy’s frame. The new one.

He had something in his hands—cloth? A flask?

"You shouldn’t be here," I rasped. My voice sounded foreign, hollow.

He hesitated. "I know."

He crouched, barely an arm’s length away. The flicker of light from the hallway cast his face in slanted lines. His name was Jace, I think. Someone muttered it near the stables once.

"I brought you this," he whispered.

He held out a piece of bread, wrapped in paper, and a small bottle of water.

It looked like a feast.

I didn’t lunge. Didn’t beg. Just stared at him.

"Why?" I asked.

His eyes flicked toward the door. "Because you’re not what they say."

"How do you know?"

"I don’t," he admitted. "But I can see your ribs through your dress, and I don’t think curses look like starving girls."

I didn’t thank him.

He didn’t need it.

He placed the items down gently, like offerings to a ghost. Then, as he stood to leave, he whispered, "You should move before sunrise. Tomorrow night will be chaos. That’s your best chance."

Then he was gone.

I stared at the food for a full minute before crawling toward it. My fingers trembled as I lifted the bread. I took small bites. Chewed slowly. The water tasted like rain, like mercy.

Hope is dangerous. I hate it. But it’s also a weapon.

When they opened the door hours later—faces stern, expecting to see me curled like roadkill—I stood.

Weak, yes.

Dizzy, absolutely.

But standing.

They frowned. One even muttered, “Thought she’d be passed out.”

I smirked, just barely. Let them wonder. Let them whisper.

Back to the halls. Back to scrubbing. Back to being invisible.

But my mind raced.

Tomorrow night. The meeting. Outsiders. Noise. Distraction.

If I can get out of the storeroom, I can get out of this place.

Not forever. Not yet.

But far enough to breathe.

I passed Isabella in the hallway just before dusk. She didn’t speak. Just narrowed her eyes and smiled like she smelled something foul.

Good.

Let her wonder.

Let them all think I’m broken and beaten.

Because tomorrow?

I bleed if I must.

I run if I can.

I burn the world if it gets in my way.